


Of Good Days and Bad

by grittycupcakes



Series: Noah Czerny and Decaying: The (After)Life of a Teenage Murder Victim [1]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Adele Czerny - Freeform, And most of them are about Noah Czerny, Gen, How Do I Tag, I have feelings, Kind of Noah/Gansey?, Not purposeful, Pre-The Raven King, but oh well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-28 19:36:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7654069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grittycupcakes/pseuds/grittycupcakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Noah Czerny doesn't remember how he died. Well, he does, actually: he was beaten to death by his friend Barrington Whelk in what he now knows as Cabeswater, a mystical forest where mothers disappear and time's even more circular than usual. He knows that, logically, he got his face bashed in with his skateboard, of all things. Noah knows.</p>
<p>But that doesn't mean he remembers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Good Days and Bad

Noah Czerny doesn't remember how he died. Well, he does, actually: he was beaten to death by his friend Barrington Whelk in what he now knows as Cabeswater, a mystical forest where mothers disappear and time's even more circular than usual. He knows that, logically, he got his face bashed in with his skateboard, of all things. Noah knows; Noah remembers.

But that doesn't mean he _r_ _emembers_.

He doesn’t remember the smash of skateboard against his skull. He doesn’t remember Whelk standing over him, and then hitting him again, because one hit with a skateboard wouldn’t kill a toddler; Noah had been 17 and as wild with it as was feasible. He doesn’t know how many times Whelk hit him, and he doesn’t know how long it actually took him to die.

It probably felt longer than it was. Dying is like that.

Noah’s dying again, and he knows deep in his ghostly marrow that _nothing_ -not Glendower or Cabeswater or Gansey’s sheer will power-is going to bring him back this time. Nothing. It will all be over. He’s flattered that Gansey wants to save him; it makes him feel as warm as a ghost ever could, blossoming in his chest and low in his belly.

The apartment door crashes open. _Speaking of Gansey._

He’s alone. No Ronan on his heels, sharp where Gansey is soft; no Adam, sepia-toned and dusty; and no Blue, with her spiky hair and cut-up shirts. Just Gansey, at once old and impossibly young, looking exhausted and beautiful in his rumpled Aglionby sweater. He walks right by the couch Noah’s spread out on, drops his bag, and flops on his bed with a grace that shouldn’t be possible, with how long he’s been awake. (54 hours, sleep kept from him by thoughts of Blue and anxiety about the search for Glendower and Roger Mallory’s snores and the nagging feeling that time’s running out. Probably, anyway. Noah’s a ghost, not a _mind reader_.)

He doesn’t know Noah’s here, which is fine. Sometimes, Noah doesn’t know either.

Gansey lays there, and not a single muscle twitches, not even when Noah makes one side of the mattress dip when he climbs up onto the bed beside him. In the afternoon sunlight-a welcomed break from the rain that’s been pounding on Monmouth’s roof for the past eight days-Gansey’s hair looks as soft as silk and is the color of gold. His skin is clear and touchable. He’s on his back, so Noah can see how his long lashes brush his cheeks.

Gansey is a priceless painting, and Noah is his unworthy viewer.

Gansey says, “Hello, Noah.”  

“You shouldn’t sleep with your shoes on,” says Noah, watching him. Gansey smiles, showing a hint of his perfect teeth, but doesn’t move to take his shoes off. His chest rises and falls with every breath he takes; in through his nose, out through his pleasant mouth. He’s so alive, it’s hard to look at him. He’s beautiful, even with those dark rings around his eyes.

Noah slides off the bed; it’s a good day, and he hasn’t spontaneously disappeared yet, not even once, so when the bed creaks when he gets off, it’s strangely nice to hear. The good days have drastically decreased in number, recently, even with the ley line thrumming awake beneath his feet.

Noah takes off Gansey’s shoes and climbs back onto the bed. As he lays down, Gansey opens his eyes and looks at him. Not for the first time, he wonders what Gansey sees. An echo of a boy? A friend, a skeleton? Something, or someone?

Since this is Gansey, and not someone more critical, like Adam, that thought doesn’t stick around for all that long.

“How do you feel?” asks Gansey, voice soft. It’s a new voice, one Noah hasn’t heard before; it’s something that rarely happens, now, since Noah is everywhere and nowhere at once. He sees more than people mean for him to, hears more than he should - and yet, he’s never heard Gansey speak like that. Not even with Blue, who Gansey is undoubtedly a little more in love with than he is with everyone else. (The feeling is mutual, though Blue ignores it and Gansey is oblivious to it. Mostly, anyway.) 

“I don’t know,” Noah says. “Let me think for a minute.” So he and Gansey lay there while Noah considers it; he hasn’t actually thought about his feelings in a while. He’s been a bit preoccupied. After a while, he says, “I feel tired.” And it’s true. He does. 

Gansey lets out a huff of a laugh. “Me too.”

“Then sleep,” says Noah, watching his fancy face. Obligingly, Gansey closes his eyes. Something in Noah’s chest swells with the knowledge that Gansey trusts him enough to lay there beside him, prone, with his eyes closed. Noah closes his eyes too. 

For a long time, they lay there; eventually, Gansey actually does fall asleep, so it’s only Noah who’s pretending. That’s alright, though. Maybe it will keep Gansey from falling asleep in his murderous Latin teacher’s class.

(Gansey would never fall asleep in class. It’s an interesting thought, though.)

 

\---

 

Eventually, a car pulls up, gravel crunching under its wheels. A door slams shut, and then a few moments later, another one does. The Dog barks.

Roger Malory is back to Monmouth Manufacturing.

Roger Malory is interesting, for lack of a better word. Noah’s never met a British man before meeting Roger Malory, and he certainly hadn’t imagined him to look like a turtle; Roger Malory, if he resembles anything that isn't exactly what you'd expect the oldest person alive to look like, resembles a turtle. Noah likes that, surprisingly. Noah doesn’t like the way his snoring keeps Gansey and Ronan awake, his multiple late-night piss breaks, or the way he’s currently occupying Noah’s room. It’s alright, though - no one’s perfect.

Both Malory (he is not going to call the man Roger; not even Gansey does) and the Dog can see him, so when Noah opens the door, he gets a smile and to move out of the way so Malory and the Dog can come in instead of getting walked straight through like he isn’t there. 

This is one reason he likes Roger Malory. 

At the sight of Gansey asleep on top of the covers of his unmade bed, Malory smiles, presses a finger to his lips when he looks at the Dog, and goes straight into Noah’s room. 

This is another reason why Noah likes Roger Malory.

He’s pretty sure the man knows that he’s dead. If he does, like Noah thinks, he doesn’t mention it or even act as though Noah is in fact a dead person. It’s a kindness Noah greatly appreciates, even if he doesn’t fully understand the reason for it.

 

\---

 

It’s a bad day. And, as has become a pattern, Blue is around for it.

Noah, despite adoring Blue beyond all reason, wishes she wasn’t. For one thing, she makes him stronger; Blue is a natural oasis of energy for someone like Noah, and when Noah’s more ghost than himself, that’s a bad thing. A very bad thing. Especially when you’re in a classroom filled with normal teenagers and one very bewildered math teacher.

Like now.

Noah had just been following Blue around her day; he’s never actually been in Mountain View High past the counselor's office. It’s exactly what you’d expect, really, from a poor American public school in the South. No one can see him when he trails Blue down the halls, but they unconsciously make room for him; in the cafeteria, for the few minutes he was able to keep from disappearing, next to Blue’s locker, an empty desk beside Blue’s. He’s made it through the whole school day, almost, without one of his… Episodes. He hasn’t even re-enacted his death. (It’s been brought to his attention that this is something he does. Noah doesn’t like thinking about it.)

Math is Blue’s last class, and has always been Noah’s least favorite, so he wasn’t in all that good a mood when they walked in. Still he’d tried, for Blue. (She’s a good motivator.) He isn’t sure what caused it, and when it’s over and he’s more _Noah_ than he is right now, he probably won’t think about it. All he knows is that one minute Blue’s teacher is writing something on the whiteboard, sweating through his dingy button up, and Blue’s taking notes and someone throws a wad of paper into her hair and-

And then there’s screaming, and papers are flying into the air and desks are getting knocked over by kids too quick to get out of their seats, and Blue’s staring at him, sad but not disappointed-looking. Everyone else is staring at her, the psychic’s daughter; some of the gazes are accusatory.

Even though he’s barely Noah right now, Noah feels bad about possibly getting her in trouble.

“Noah,” she says, and her voice is heart breaking. And then the energy is gone, and Noah is paper-thin and see-through. Blue has cut him off.

“I’m sorry.” He says. She nods, and even though she’s in a dress that makes her look a little like a lampshade, Blue seems as sensible and grounded as she truly is. Noah smiles at her, tired and weak. She smiles back, but makes no move to touch him.

“I know you are,” Blue replies. She doesn’t say it’s okay, which is something Noah likes about her. Blue doesn’t deal in falsehoods.

Then, Noah is gone.

 

\---

 

Lately Noah’s taken to hanging around his grave. It’s a nice grave, as far as those things go. It always has flowers. His headstone is pretty average, though it’s not cheap looking. It just has his name, date of birth, date of death, and a simple sentence: _Here lies Noah Czerny, loving brother, son and friend._ He distinctly remembered having a morbid conversation with his sister, Adele, about wanting a song quote on his headstone.

He can’t blame them for not using that lyric for his headstone, even though he wishes they had.

Noah sits by his grave and watches, whenever he’s here; Henrietta is small, so there’s very little foot traffic, but people do come by. Goth teenagers, all posturing for one another; old men and women, come to lay flowers at their lost spouse’s grave; and Adele Czerny, every Sunday after church.

Today, she’s wearing a lovely yellow dress and a white cardigan. Her eyeshadow is glittery, her lipstick a pretty shade of pink. Out of his two sisters, Adele had been the one he was closest to during his life. They look alike; the same thin face and wide orphan’s eyes and light hair. She has a pretty bouquet of flowers clutched in her right hand. Noah doesn’t know what kind, but they’re pink and blue and yellow. Adele isn’t a church person-church wasn’t something the Czernys ever did, when Noah was alive-so she’s probably dressed up just because she wants to be. Adele did things like that, when she was little, wearing pretty dresses and plastic Cinderella heels to Kindergarten or putting on Mom’s red lipstick and curling her blonde hair before going out to ride her bike.

_Here I am, Adele,_ Noah thinks, false pulse thrumming beneath his skin. _I’m right here, I’m here._

The worst thing about being dead is that his loved ones can’t see him. Adele walks right through him when he moves in front of her; even if this was one of the days where he was more solid, even if they were right above the ley line, Adele wouldn’t be able to see him. Somehow, that’s the worst part about being dead and dying again; even though he’s _here, right now,_ Adele can’t see him because she doesn’t have a psychic bone in her body. Adele is apart of the vast majority of the living that get to rest securely in ignorance; for them, ghosts aren’t real. For Adele, Noah is dead, even when he’s rubbing her back with his too-cold hand, standing beside her in front of his grave.

_I’m sorry, Adele,_ Noah thinks. _I’m sorry._

When Adele leaves, maybe a few minutes after getting there, maybe a few hours, she doesn’t look like she’s been crying. She looks as beautiful and fragile as she had when she came. Noah wishes desperately to follow her, to hold her hand and take her for rides in his car with the top down and some Fall Out Boy song blaring from the radio, just like he used to.

It’s been a bad day, so Noah doesn’t feel all that sad when he fades away.

 

\---

 

Noah doesn’t remember the feeling of his cheekbone caving in. He doesn’t remember the pain, the betrayal he must’ve felt; he doesn’t remember whether or not his last breaths were ragged and bloody. He thinks they must’ve been.

What Noah remembers about his death centers around Barrington Whelk, and he usually only takes the time to remember it on his worst days. He remembers the look in his eyes when he turned to look at him; Whelk’s childlike face had been twisted, his eyes glinting, maybe even with tears. He remembers how there’d been no hesitation in that first swing; he hadn’t even had time to block the hit. Noah remembers the ground beneath his hands, and the feel of Whelk’s corduroys when he grabbed at his legs in a vain attempt to make him fall, to make him _stop, Whelk, please._

He remembers Whelk’s fingers in his hair, right before he died, like an apology.

Well. Noah doesn’t accept.

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically just me venting my love of Noah Czerny. I hope you enjoyed.  
> In case anyone wants to scream about Noah Czerny with me, my tumblr is @k-e-i-l-y! We can cry about Noah and the rest of the Gangsey. It'll be fun.


End file.
